meeting
by thirdmetaphor
Summary: Madara doesn't know exactly when he started to regret stopping him. HashiMada.


**Meeting**

* * *

Sometimes, Hashirama asks him why he spared his life that day. It would have been a quick death, another slice of red across a battlefield already drenched. During these times Madara looks away and mutters that there was no way he would willingly deal with Hashirama's damned brother if he were gone, only because it's the first excuse that comes to mind.

But when he arrives at the Uchiha clan meeting room and blinks helplessly at the dull silence, at the complete lack of human presence anywhere near him, everything seems wrong.

And he wonders if he regrets it.

~v~

"Give them time," is what Hashirama usually suggests when he confides in him as his lover instead of his council member. They sit above his head on the new Hokage mountain. "It took me ten years to see past your gloomy face, you can't expect them to get it within a month."

"Those are my people," he replies with an edge to his voice. "They already know me."

Behind Hashirama's peaceful gaze is something that reeks of pity, and to Madara this is more painful than the cut of a blade. The two of them have always been boys on the edge of society, and the ease with which Hashirama slinks back in, away from him, is disturbing. But Izuna is dead and there is no one else that will speak with him without fear.

He barely notices when Hashirama's hand is in his, pulling him down to sit on the stone head. His skin is like a slow fire, life pulsating through every vein with the heat he always embodies. He probably sweats like a pig under his Hokage's robes but Madara thinks he would prefer anything to the cold shivers he's left with.

"You don't need to worry so much, Madara," he says softly. "I know the Uchiha well; you are all very passionate people. One day, they will recognize you. All you need to do is wait."

The Hokage's words are soothing, just like every other part of him. They're redolent of times passed when they were younger, when they lied beside each other sometimes in the late afternoon, and Hashirama's fingers were laced tightly in his like they'd never let go. His friend has mastered the art of assonance, of tugging at the chord in his mind that sends shivers of content through his body and drains away all the stress that his Uchiha blood accumulates.

"How can I protect people that do not trust me?" He murmurs, half-hoping the wind will carry his words away.

But Hashirama has heard them, and a slight frown pulls at his lips. "I don't know," he confides. "I think many of them still cling to the memories of the warring times. Back then you Uchiha numbered far less due to your lack of medics, and your people have already experienced loss under your lead. It wasn't your fault. I didn't put nearly as much soul into ruling as you do even now, but when they saw my clan winning they naturally assumed that I must be a better leader. A mindset so permeating will take a long time to fade."

"We won't have peace in the long run, like this," Madara replies quietly. His hands are balanced lightly over Hashirama's shoulders, because despite the incongruity of their situation he doesn't think the strength of his emotions will ever fade, the Uchiha are cursed with these sentiments, and it isn't their only curse. "Sure, your village has worked so far, but the Uchiha will not sit quietly in a land like this. One day they will pose problems, and I am the only one who can rectify them. If they will not trust me, what are you going to do?"

Hashirama's sudden peals of laughter are rich and earthy. "Madara," he leans forward, whispering the words harshly, and his breath skitters across his cheek. "When exactly did this become _my _village?"

As he kisses back stubbornly, Madara realizes that he can't remember exactly when they became lovers. It's something too gradual to locate, simply a friendship pushed a little past propriety, and neither of them cared for things like that when it had begun. Sometimes he asks himself if he considers it love and comes up with no answer but yes.

But he's all too aware of the intensity of the Uchiha's curse. There is no way Hashirama feels the same, even though his hands skim lightly over Madara's collarbone, pulling heat to the skin where they touch. His is a fiery love but Hashirama is too clouded with kindness to take something entirely for himself.

"I'm not naïve," he mutters as his armor clatters off. They inch farther up the stone sculpture, into the crevices of Shodai's hair where they're hidden from the village's eyes. The people push for their Hokage to marry the Uzu princess and connect their clans, after all. Seeing him intimate with their fallen second leader would be nothing but disheartening.

Hashirama's voice reverberates in the dip of his neck. "Of course you're naïve. We both are. Without our naïveté we would have become like our fathers. It is what defines us, Madara."

_Nii-san, don't be fooled by his pretty words._

Madara kisses back just as fervently, dragging Hashirama's lips up to his as he works on the clasp of his Hokage's robes, but Izuna's voice doesn't leave his mind. It's his own personal demon, far more powerful than the Kyuubi than breathes under his chakra. No matter how many years have passed since his death, Madara has known his younger brother to possess a strange wisdom, always true to reality. Disregarding the soundless opinion drags blades across the fibers of his consciousness.

Hashirama immediately sees the change in his touch. "Don't worry," he repeats, and his eyes fall shut, directing the sunlight over the deep color of his cheekbones. "Please, just trust me. I'll make it right. The people will learn to see you properly. If they can trust me as their Hokage, then they can trust my choice in friends."

So for the moment, Madara trusts him.

And hours later he returns to the Uchiha compound, heading to the main house for the clan meeting he calls every week, knowing that not a single person will attend.


End file.
